Jefferson County's biggest legal gun last week floated the far-fetched notion of county dissolution, of actually dissolving county government to replace it with, well, God may know but nobody else has a clue.

Dissolution, as lawyer Kenneth Klee put it, is "extremely unlikely." But he said it has to remain an option if the county is left, by legislative inaction, without the means to function.

It's just talk, I know. More flexing to put pressure on the Legislature to pass an occupational tax, or something to give the county a way of paying its bills before the session runs out.

Still, I felt compelled to ask County Manager Tony Petelos about it. The strange conversation went something like this:

Me: Is dissolution something that could really happen?

Petelos: I'm optimistic it can.

Me: Seriously? You want dissolution?

Petelos: We're working with the Legislature to try to get it.

Me: You're kidding me. Dissolution?

Petelos: We've been working on this solution a long time.

Wow. It seemed for a moment as if the county had been plotting for ages to undermine itself. Until it dawned on me that this conversation wasn't what it seemed. What we had here was a failure to communicate.

While I was talking to Petelos about "dissolution," Petelos was talking to me about "this solution." He was referring to the continuing -- and perhaps as far-fetched -- effort to coax the legislative delegation into passing bills that would give the county enough money to govern.

That conversation may have been comically ill-fated, but it still summed up the county's dilemma. When we try to talk of solutions, the meaning gets lost in translation. It dissolves into misunderstanding.

In the end, dissolution is not The Solution.

I know the idea of wiping the slate clean has some momentary appeal. But it is only because we have become so jaded, so hopelessly divided as a people, a legislative delegation and a county, that a big eraser seems like an answer.

The fact is, nobody knows what dissolution would do, or cost, or be. Or even if it is doable.

I suppose in the best case dissolution would free us of the albatross that is the Jefferson County name, and with it the notoriety of the nation's largest municipal bankruptcy. It would deliver us from that divided and repugnant legislative delegation, and put us at arm's length from the baggage of our history.

But think what else we would lose.

We'd have to rip that picture of Thomas Jefferson off the county seal. We'd have to fire all those lawyers and -- this hurts most of all -- give up that No. 1 designation on car tags. It would probably wind up in Mobile County.

After dissolution, the county formerly known as Jefferson would lose its ability to administer basic services, like granting licenses in a timely way. We could not recruit industry, ensure clean air or water, or even fix the streets on time.

Post-apocalyptic Jefferson County, the way I see it, is desperate and divided. It is unable to perform governmental functions, and unwilling to pay for them.

Come to think of it, that sounds strikingly like today's Jefferson County:

Maybe we ought to look into this dissolution thing after all. Desperate times, really, call for more than just desperation.